


Weimar - The black lioness

by Snowingiron



Series: German Cities [2]
Category: Paris Burning (thecitysmith)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Other, Paris Burning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowingiron/pseuds/Snowingiron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she loved, but her love was wild and heavy, like a nightmare sitting on someone’s chest. She loved 'Revolution' like a grandchild</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

The moment she became a City, nothing that was before mattered anymore. It was so obvious to love your children more than your siblings. And when she burned(every City had at least burned once. It wasn’t that special anymore. Back then, they were only made of wood and ideas) they cared for her like no one else.

She married each and every duke or duchess that came to rule her. She was a bride because she loved, but her love was wild and heavy, like a nightmare sitting on someone’s chest. A few husbands died in their sleep.

*

when the witch hunting started, in 1561, people became suspicious. Some women were killed because it was said they slept with the devil in their bed. Some were accused to be the makings of Cities… truly ungodly.

She visited her duke in a small cell in 1628. She had missed him.

"Johann", she said and touched his face. "Why so troubled?"

"I confessed."

"To what?"

"I confessed to having a deal with the devil."

Her eyes hardened, like her grip. The smile she gave him was none he had ever seen before. Her lips were close to his when she whispered: “I am not the devil.”

He was dead the next morning.

Until then, no one ever thought about harming their City and some never even saw them getting hurt, didn’t know if they could die.

Later, two women were beheaded and burned. Both of them were Weimar.

They never questioned her again.

*

A glimpse in time was named after her. Inspiration. A time full of words and smiles. Cheerful. Dancing. The only time she watched ‘changing’ from a distance instead of being part of it.

"Mein Dichten, Trachten, Hoffen und Verlangen allein nach dir und deinem Wesen drängt", whispered Goethe in her right ear.

"Was man nicht aufgibt, hat man nie verloren", Schiller murmured into her left.

Herder and Falk walked away from her, but it was alright. When one left, there was always another to take his place.

*

A republic was named after her. It was a concept she couldn’t wrap her mind around for a long time.

  
What once was called a ‘change’ was now a ‘revolution’.

What once was called a ‘reign’ was now a ‘form of government’

What once was called ‘truth’ was now a ‘lie’

But there were also things that would never change: Her people would always be her people. And she would do everything to please them.

*  


She loved ‘revolution’ like a grandchild.

*

Wars had never been fought without her. She was the black lioness. The bride of war. Her armour had always been as dark as her hair, her eyes showing nothing but protectiveness. Now she changed from armour to uniform, but the feeling was the same. She would always be on their side.

"But what if it’s the wrong side?", a soldier once asked.

"Family is always the right side."

*

She either knew faces or she didn’t. There was no in-between. So when she actually _remembered_ a face, she was in total awe. She was standing on the grounds of Buchenwald(in knee-deep self-satisfaction) and looked at an old face that she hadn’t seen in centuries. _Dortmund_. A brother she admired once.

But she was nothing like them, not anymore. Her loyalty lay with her people.

 _Ah_ – Maybe that was her fatal flaw. So she walked away.

*

One last thing that changed: A ‘mental asylum’ was now a ‘psychiatric hospital’. I don’t talk much these days. The men in white think I’ve lost the ability to speak but the reality is that I simply chose not to.

They gave me an empty journal so that I could write about my life like a story. Like it is not about me but about someone else. So that I would understand what I did wrong.

 _Wrong_.

Dortmund visited me once. But he only watched me from the other side of the room and then walked away. That’s what I always hated about him. He knows how to make me feel like a scolded child.

A few years ago I found the courage to write other Cities, to make them talk to me. They never answered and maybe that was his doing, too.

In the past I knew or didn’t know. Now everything I do is to remember and it pains me, sometimes. Now they watch me through a window, like a tourist attraction and maybe that’s all I am now. A tourist destination.

If it pleases them, it’s what I will be. I know my crime but it wasn’t wrong.

*

_She will always remember art and music, just like war and death._


	2. Weimar's gallants

Schiller fell asleep on top of her, inside of her and she stroked his neck because now she also felt him in a completely different way. He didn't just love her anymore. He called her home and that feeling was stronger than her climax she had felt a few minutes ago.

She sighed into his hair, wanted to pull him closer, wanted to eat him, to _become_ him. But he wasn't the only one who loved her like that. She slightly turned her head to look at Goethe who still sat on a chair, next to a small candle, writing on a piece of paper.

 

"Do you like to watch?", she asked him in a low voice.

 

"Yes... you are inspiring. You are a fire I thought lost." He looked up and smiled.

 

Weimar smiled back "Come and join us."

 

"I am old, my love."

 

Now she felt like laughing. "You are really not. _I_ am old. I've seen how mountains can fall and the way fire can rain. I've seen the waves of the sea and heard the sound of a breaking heart. You are not old, young Werther."

 

Goethe flinched at that name and Weimar could see the memories coming back to him. Those of a woman he couldn't have and one of a friend who chose 'Freitod'. He had grown to hate that time, had overcome the _Sturm_ and _Drang._ But now he was here, with his friend and with his City, and he couldn't escape time anymore.

 

Goethe didn't answer, the quill in his hand was twitching. After a moment of silence, Weimar rolled Schiller onto his back, who murmured tasty words and began to stir. She pressed her lips against his ear and sang him back to sleep before she rose, wrapping herself in Schiller's coat.

 

"Are all Cities like you?," Goethe asked, because he didn't ever meet another one. He once had seen Leipzig from afar, dressed in a beautiful gown, but that memory was already fading from his mortal mind.

 

"Are you like every other man?"

 

"You tell me."

 

Weimar chuckled. "I love you because you're beautifully human. You smell like them, you talk like them, but you aren't them.You are their ghost..." Goethe stared at her. "The other Cities don't know me well. They think I am wild and obscene."

 

She slowly sat down on Goethe's lap. Sometimes she liked to do that because his eyes would begin to shine everytime. He would feel like he could own her, but he never truly would. _She_ owned _him_. But it was wiser to let him believe that he could be free of her. Because as soon as all her dukes and duchesses had felt their freedom taken from them, they went mad. They had cried and been afraid of her, they had grown ill. It had been an act of compassion to let them die.

 

Death meant freedom.

 

Now Goethe freely smiled at her. "No, you aren't wild... you are fierce, you are the parasite of love, vigorous and glowing."

 

"The things you say", she purred against his cheek and kissed it the way she would kiss his lips.

 

"And what you say leaves the bed cold and empty," Schiller sighed from the other side of the room. "For I am not complete. Without you here, I'll stay as empty as these sheets." his hands run over them, his cheek pressed into the pillow while he watched Weimar and Goethe with longing eyes. "White and blank and waiting to be used."

 

Goethe's grip on her got tighter for a second, then he let her go, let her stop in front of the bed. Schiller dragged the coat from her shoulders and kissed them, while Goethe still stared at her and Schiller, watching, hesitating.

 

"Join us", she told him while Schiller hummed in approval. Sweet Schiller, only 41 years old. His wife couldn't replace the love of a City but Weimar loved her as well. She loved them all so much. (But she already smelled that Schiller's death was near and that it would break dear Goethe's heart forever.)

 

It was all Goethe needed, so he kissed Weimar, rough and loving, because he loved her young looking skin. The thought that he could have her drove him to lovely insanity. Schiller knew that, because he always knew and chuckled into her hair, dragging them both to bed.

 

Sometimes she loved only one of them while the other watched and there were rare times when she watched the two of them because it still felt like she was with them. Now she moaned against a pair of lips, felt another at her neck until she didn't know anymore if she was one of them or herself or both.

 

Schiller gasped between her shoulder blades, thrusted and pushed until there was no space left between them and gave her names and even older names, because he knew how they tingled on her skin. Goethe always was the quiet one, who talked with his hands, on her breasts, on her hips, on her face.

 

Weimar loved how desperate they were for her, how much they tried to please, so when she didn't moan she laughed at life and it's odds. She even laughed at them for being alive and making their life about words that rhyme. Because all of it would be for her and they would never leave, not even after they breathed for the last time.

 

She came, with the thought of their bones soon lying under her skin, six feet under. They would lie with her forever and they would be one, complete and whole.

 

Death had been her lover once. Now he hated her.

**Author's Note:**

> Goethe's words: To write, to aspire, to hope and my desire alone urge me towards your being
> 
> Schiller's words: What you didn't give up you never have lost


End file.
